


Rapprochement

by deadlybride



Series: the Full House of Wincest [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Dysfunctional Family, Established Relationship, M/M, Parent/Child Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-20
Updated: 2017-11-20
Packaged: 2019-02-04 21:52:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12780294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: A disagreement with Sam sends Dean and John out to hunt on their own.





	Rapprochement

**Author's Note:**

> for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'Dean as wife and mother'.

When the car turns off and Dean startles awake, they’re just outside Omaha. It’s warm, in the cocoon of the cabin, but as soon as Dad pops the driver door a gust of icy air blows in and he’s shivering, just like that. The door slams again, though, and he’s left there in the dark, watching in the motel’s blinking neon while Dad crunches across the parking lot to the brightly lit office, the shape of him all big and shadowing in the darker night. He ducks his face down into the collar of the leather coat he’s got pulled around himself like a blanket, breathes in that familiar smell. He hasn’t forgotten that he’s annoyed—he probably got some damn hearing loss from that stupid argument—but right at this moment it doesn’t seem—well, maybe it’s not quite as important, for now.

His eyes are slitted and he’s breathing slow when Dad comes back with the room key. The car rumbles to life again, and pulls slow and easy around the back of the long low buildings, further away from the light. Dean watches the way Dad handles the wheel, the comfortable way his hands move, flashing in and out of view in the dim light coming in the window. It’s near pitch-dark when Dad kills the engine again, when the headlights go down, and Dean can’t see much more than a gleam of teeth when Dad jostles his shoulder and says, “Okay, up and at ‘em.”

It’s frickin’ freezing outside the car. Nebraska in January is no place to be. Dean gets out and stretches, just for a second, but the cold air seeps in under his jacket and he hunches down again, tugs the leather coat on over the top of what he’s wearing. Dad’s already at the trunk, and he hands over the duffles with their clothes to Dean and grabs the heavier gun bags himself, and then Dean waits shivering while Dad fumbles with the motel lock in the dark. Place needs to install some exterior lights. Finally Dad gets it, and leans back to let Dean go in first. Dean flicks the interior light and one of the lamps goes on in a burst of murky amber, and he sweeps the room in a glance—nothing, there never is, but it pays to be careful. Dad locks the door behind them and Dean puts the bags in their places, lined up neatly next to the bathroom door, while Dad pulls out the shotguns and leans them up next to the bed, and Dean’s not thinking about much, really, when he goes and stands at the dark window, only that he’s still sort of cold and that maybe he can get Dad to go for pancakes tomorrow, before they go meet the family, but apparently the silence between them went on too long, because Dad says, “You’re still mad,” with his voice all tired.

Dean shrugs. “Not my call,” he says, and tucks his hands into the coat’s big pockets.

“No, it’s not,” Dad says, but not sharp, not like he could. “Let me hear it.”

Dean blinks, and turns so he can see. Dad’s sitting on the edge of the bed, leaning with his elbows on his knees, hands folded loose between them. He does look kind of tired, but he’s not mad. He’s just watching Dean, his eyes steady, and Dean turns back out to the night outside. “Sammy doesn’t mean half of what he says, you know. He just—he hates moving schools, is all. Little dork worries about missing out on more homework.” Dad huffs, and Dean finds himself smiling, a little. Still, if Dad’s going to let him get it out— “Think he’s more mad that I’m quitting, though.”

“You don’t have to,” Dad says, and Dean shrugs, again. They’ve been over this. Anyway, he’ll be nineteen, in a week, and he’s not going to be that kid who got behind and now is way too old to still be in high school. That’s just... sad. Not how Sammy sees it, though. He’d been so mad when they switched towns, and madder still when Dean said he wasn’t going to bother with enrolling, not this time. Dean had tried anything to distract him—movies, food. Even took him to the library. Thought it had worked, until Dad got home and Sam laid into him. Seriously—so much yelling, and Sam almost never yells, especially not at Dad. And, well, Dad had yelled right back. Dean shakes his head, and leans against the window sill. It’s snowing, now, so it’ll be even colder tomorrow. It’s quiet here, at least. Sam’s back in the apartment in Kearney, not too far down the highway, but Dean honestly wasn’t all too upset when Dad announced that he and Dean could take care of this poltergeist thing on their own. Least it means he can maybe get to shoot something, instead of trying to keep some crappy kind of peace.

He’s still a little pissed, though, and when Dad moves, when he comes in close, Dean doesn’t turn around. He’s kind of tired, too.

“Sam will cool off,” Dad says, quiet. It’s not an apology—not like Dad ever does apologize, even when he was fighting right back—and Dean rolls his eyes, since he knows Dad can’t see. A big hand settles in the center of his back. He can feel it, even through the layers of coat, jacket, two shirts. He closes his eyes, stands still, and Dad moves in closer—his other hand slides to Dean’s hip, under the hem of his flannel, settles into place with his thumb just brushing against bare skin. His thumb’s warm, the callus on the edge just a little rough on the sensitive skin there above his hip, and Dean sighs, leans back just a little and there’s Dad’s chest, solid. He takes Dean’s weight easy, holds his hips in both hands. “Cold?” Dad says, quiet against the top of his ear, and Dean shakes his head, and so Dad props him up just a little and helps peel off the leather coat, and the ratty jacket, and his old flannel, too, so he’s left just in his henley. He wasn’t cold, before, but all the layers coming off at once makes him shiver. Dad’s hands slide down his arms, grounding, before he’s pulled around and tugged in close, and Dad’s tilting his face up, and he’s being kissed. Not hard, and not rough like sometimes it can be when it’s been weeks or months between, when they finally get time alone—and it’s been a while this time, for sure, but this is just... soft.

Dean closes his eyes, lets his hands close into the heavy weight of Dad’s coat. He’s used to the beard, finally, but it still tickles at his lips, against his chin. Dad runs a hand up his back, cups his neck and kneads the muscle there, lightly, and Dean practically melts against him, can’t help it. He doesn’t get this, is all. Not anywhere but like this, here. He feels dumb, sometimes, how easy he goes down, like some chick in a romance movie, but like this—Dad doesn’t give orders, doesn’t get impatient. It’s just them, and this, and Dean loves this. Dad’s mouth moves to his jaw, to his temple, and Dean leans his forehead into Dad’s chest and groans, quiet, as the perfect pressure slips down his spine, kneads between his shoulderblades. “There you go,” Dad says, kinda sounds like he’s smiling, and okay, so Dad ends up winning every argument, every time. Figures.

Dean pulls back, just a little, and Dad’s looking down at him with, yeah, the smallest smile there, almost hidden. Dean’s already halfway there, just from the simple kiss and the backrub. “Okay, bud?” Dad says, raising his eyebrows like he’s being concerned, like he’s  _not_  making fun, and Dean rolls his eyes—but he also presses in close, can’t help it, and like this an eye roll only makes Dad laugh. A small laugh, sure, but it lights Dean’s belly up on the inside—and then Dad catches him up by the hips again and walks him back to the bed. In a moment he’s sitting on the edge of it, the king soft and forgiving at his back, and he wants—oh, man, he wants it bad, and the warm in his belly is spread through his whole body, all of his nerves tingling, his muscles shuddering already with anticipation. Dad’s dropping his jacket, putting his sidearm on the bedside table, and Dean kicks his boots off, peels off his henley, his amulet falling down against his bare chest with a glance of cool metal, and when he yanks his head free of the shirt and tosses it off the side of the bed Dad’s already there, in front of him, and he drops down so he’s crouched between Dean’s spread knees, so their faces are level.

“Okay?” Dad says again, serious this time. Dean’s straining through his jeans, flushed all over, and he still asks. A flood of—Dean doesn’t even know what, but  _something_ , it rolls through his chest and sets his cheeks flaming hot, and he reaches out a clumsy hand and gets his hand on Dad’s face, rubs his palm along the soft-scratchy line of his jaw. Dad’s eyes are steady on his, everything just humming for a second, waiting—and then Dean nods, jerky, and the feeling when Dad catches his face between two palms, when he closes his eyes and knows exactly what’s coming, is like something slotting into place. Dad’s thumbs push over his cheekbones, and the comfort of it settles like heavy velvet over his thumping heart. Sometimes, he thinks, all of it—the fighting, the fear, the blood—is all worth it, because after that’s all done he gets this: this promise, made in the dark, that despite everything his family is here, and alive, and his.

 

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/165820590824/rapprochement)


End file.
